


the L word

by kryptic



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, by request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptic/pseuds/kryptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a series of drabbles for various femslash pairings in order to fill the aching void for lovely lesbian (and bisexual and ??? sexual) ladies in the dishonored fandom</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the lady and the sailor

It’s quiet on the ship, but for the creaking of wood and rope. Salt air smacks Billie’s face and crystallizes in her eyelashes. Her lips taste of it as she wets them, staring out into the sea, one arm hooked in the rigging.

The ship is full of whalers, mostly, though a few travelers have hitched a ride in hopes of a cheaper route to Serkonos. What they don’t know is that these straits are haunted by pirates. It will be a cheap voyage, certainly, but there is a chance that it may instead cost them their lives.

That’s where she comes in, of course. It’s quick money, and easy, and a way for Billie to unite both of her dreams. Though she isn’t captain yet, this is a start. And killing pirates, while not as easy as slaying noblemen, is ten times as exciting.

Particularly when she spies the only other woman on board. Her wardrobe is not quite practical – a sign of gentle birth, perhaps, or simply that this is her first voyage at sea. Her fingertips, clad in gloves, must be soft and supple. She has that look about her. Proper. At the same time, humble. Billie makes a note of bumping into her, just to be sure.

Quarters are close below decks, even with many bunks left empty. The economy of shipping is still trying to recover from the plague. The young lady is bundling up her things in an aisle when Billie tries to squeeze past and accidentally (on purpose) sends the woman’s parcel leaping out of her hands.

Her target turns around. Lovely dark eyes, red around the rims from being ill or at sea or from crying. A bit of a sunburn on her cheeks which will only worsen in the days to come. Yes, she is very fresh. It’s intriguing.

“I’m sorry about that,” the woman gushes. “Am I in your way?”

“It’s my fault,” Billie replies. Never apologizing. She allows a small smile, for once not needing to force her own charm. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

She would remember a face like that. They’re Gristol features, through and through, a bit patrician though not entirely upper class. The woman has sorrow around the corners of her eyes. Billie supposes almost everyone does, these days. Herself included.

“I’m Callista Curnow.” She offers her hand and Billie takes it, still wondering about those fingertips. If only she could feel their touch through the leather of her gloves.

“Billie Lurk. You’re headed for Serkonos.”

The woman nods. Callista, Billie tells herself. A name like a bell.

“Yes. I have family there. Distant family, but…” She trails off and scrapes up a smile moments later, and Billie now recognizes the cause of those red eyes. “The only family I have left.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. Means it. “You’re Serkonan?”

If so, that slender face certainly had her fooled.

“A spoonful,” Callista replies. “Nothing more. My uncle was Captain of the City Watch,” she adds, as if to make up for a perceived shortcoming in her pedigree.

Funny, how people do that. As if a dark-skinned woman is going to judge her on her lineage.

“Is it from him you got your adventurous spirit?”

Callista blinks at her for a moment before seeming to realize her allusion. She glances around the interior of the ship and gives a short little laugh. Once again, the sound of a bell.

“I’ve wanted to work on a whaling ship since I was a girl,” she finally admits. “I couldn’t, of course.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Callista says, looking vaguely uncomfortable as she gestures down at herself. “I’m a woman.”

“So?” Billie raises a brow and smirks. “Don’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do. Least of all a man.”

The woman only stares back at her with a charming mixture of delight and pining. Before she can open her mouth, Lurk cuts in again.

“Do you want to come up with me? If we’re lucky, we might see a few whales.”

Callista seems to perk up at the thought, and she begins hastily bundling her things again as a wordless answer. When she straightens, she smooths out the front of her trousers and nods.

“I would like that.”

\---

The sun greets them almost too brightly when they move out onto the deck, the angle of its descent shooting its rays directly into their eyes. Lurk leads her to the starboard rail, propping her elbows atop as she stares out just shy of the horizon. Smooth seas for most of today, so there’s little fear of being tossed. She beckons Callista over and links their arms together at the elbow.

Just to be safe.

“It’s so beautiful out here,” the lady remarks. “I wish that I could stay forever.”

“You can. Never doubt it.”

The two fall into a comfortable silence as each stares over the water. Billie spots what seems like a splash out on the water and quickly points it out. Callista narrows her eyes and sights it just in time to see a massive lobtail. Neither sounds the alarm to the whalers. They simply stand and watch until the creature dives beneath the surface.

“There must be others around here,” Billie observes.

“Why do you say that?”

“They say that the whales slap their tails to send messages to each other. I don’t know whether that’s true or not. Maybe they’re just bored.”

Callista brightens immediately. “I read that it was males trying to impress their mates.”

Billie snorts and glances over at her, a lazy smile on her lips. “That’s not how I would do it.”

“Oh? How would you?”

“Smooth and subtle, at first. Then, when she was close enough to me, I would pounce. Let her know that she would never meet someone like me again.”

“I think that sounds like a very effective strategy.”

The Gristol woman grins and tightens her hold on Billie’s arm. They watch the sea and tossing waves until not sun, but moonlight shines off the water. No hope of seeing the whales now, but if the mood is right…

“They might sing to each other tonight,” Lurk observes.

“Really?”

“There’s always a chance. We might hear them better from below decks.”

“I’d hate to sleep through it.” The pinched expression on her face indicates that it just might break her heart if she was in bed dreaming instead of hearing that pod of whales.

“Don’t worry,” Billie says, gently tugging the woman to the warm haven of her bunk. “I’ll help you stay awake.”


	2. the princess and the pauper

As the woman admits to Corvo, no one thinks Cecelia’s joke is funny.

It frightens Callista out of her wits, but it’s from the others at the Hound Pits that the young redhead’s punishment truly comes.

Pendleton won’t condescend to speak to her, but Wallace does plenty of talking for him. How dare she frighten the innocent Loyalists in their time of need and try to pass it off as humor?

Havelock looks down at her from his great height, stern like a seabird still perched on the mast of a ship. He says nothing more than ‘Disgraceful,” accompanied by a shake of his head. His disappointment stings.

Martin simply won’t look at her, though he never does. The Overseer has eyes only for Callista.

Lydia gives her a stern lecture in her typically harsh, smoked-out tone.

Piero is typically ignorant about the event, though he chastises Cecelia for interrupting their hugely important work when he hears. It’s his disapproval that stings most.

She casts herself into her bunk and pretends that they are his arms, that her pillow is his shoulder. She cries as quietly as possible. That’s how she does everything – with the minimum amount of distraction or noise. Except for last night, and it was only because she wanted to brighten the mood. Shame makes her weep all the harder.

It’s then that she feels a gentle hand on her shoulder. Though it is far too small and thin and delicate to be Piero’s, she hopes for but a moment. It’s Callista’s face, however, that greets her when she turns around.

Cecelia desperately wipes at her eyes with a sleeve, stuttering out a softly-spoken excuse. “I’m sorry you had to see me this way….”

“It’s fine,” the other woman assures her. “It’s not your fault.” She holds out a handkerchief and, when Cecelia seems to dazed to take it from her hand, dabs at the tears herself. Her touch is tender and affectionate, and the ginger girl feels the tightness in her chest soothe away.

“I just wanted to make everyone happy,” she laments in a defeated tone, hugging the pillow to her chest.

“I know,” Callista sighs, sitting on the bed beside her. “People can react angrily when they’re frightened. They should have considered your feelings.”

“They wouldn’t,” she says, sniffing. “I’d just hoped that, one of these days, I could see someone smile again.”

“I would like to have more laughter here.”

Cecelia lets their conversation fall silent and stares into space for a while. Gradually, her eyes dry, but her brows remain knit together, a sign of some inner turmoil. Finally, she draws a shaky breath and holds tightly to Callista’s hand.

“Will you tell me something?” she asks, her voice timid as ever.

“Yes.”

“Why is it that Piero is in love with you, and not me? Am I not pretty? My parents always told me that I was pretty.”

Callista sighs and gazes out the window, toward the recluse’s workshop. “He doesn’t love me,” she answers. “Not really. He just admires me and confuses it for love. He’ll snap out of it one day and move on to the next woman.

“As for you,” she continues, reaching toward Cecelia. Her slender hands brush loose red hair back from the other woman’s shoulders, tucking it behind her ears. “I think you’re beautiful.”

A small gasp rises from her lips. “Do you really?”

The governess nods. “Far more beautiful than I am.”

“No, I couldn’t be,” Cecelia protests. “Everyone here thinks you’re lovely. Overseer Martin, Piero, even Corvo, I think. They barely notice me.”

“I do.”

“Do you?”

And the hands that have swept back her hair run their thumbs along her freckled cheeks. Cecelia freezes and watches, transfixed, while Callista leans forward. Of their own accord, the servant’s timid fingers find the other woman’s waist.

“You have a friend in me,” Callista assures her.

The statement is a bit of a letdown, crushing some hopeful seed deep inside of her. “Friends,” Cecelia repeats, her tone painfully dejected though she tries to lift it into optimism.

Then her companion leans forward and her thin lips loom in Cecelia’s view.

“That’s what we’ll tell them.”

\---

There is laughter in the Hound Pits Pub that night.


	3. the assassin and the noblewoman

The ladies Boyle are always wanting people killed. It’s just their nature, Billie supposes.

As always, there is a great argument at headquarters over who gets to go and meet with them. It doesn’t matter which one of the Boyles takes out the contract – the men are always bickering amongst themselves over who would be best fit to go and ‘handle’ the ladies.

Who is the most handsome. Whose birth is the most noble. Who is the best assassin. Who bathes the most often.

However, Daud is most concerned with which one of them is least likely to be on some other assassin’s hit list for slamming and scramming on the Boyles. Waverly, in particular, is the most dangerous, the most fickle.

The answer to this conundrum, he believes, is to send Lurk. No danger of seduction there.

If only the poor man knew.

Billie accepts the assignment in her typical, stoic manner, but she is smiling beneath her mask. It is lucky that the filter distorts her tone, or Daud would hear it in her voice, as well. She always looks forward to a visit to the Boyle manor. There is a woman there, a lady, who she finds quite diverting.

\---

She reports to the estate at sundown – not because she needs the cover of darkness, but because she knows that is when Lydia will be there. The middle sister, though the plainest, is easily Billie’s favorite. Waverly is too moody and Esma makes her wary that she’ll catch something, but Lydia and her love of both music and the occult have left quite an impression on the woman assassin.

Billie arrives unannounced in the music room, black smoke billowing out around her. Lydia looks up from the harpsichord, blinks away momentary surprise and glee at the display of dark magic, and smiles a greeting. She has never seen the face behind the mask, but the red coat is announcement enough. As is Lurk’s voice, the most feminine speech to ever come pouring out of a whaler’s filter.

“Perfect timing, as usual,” she says, sitting back from her playing. “How is business?”

Lurk snorts. “Better than ever, with you and your sisters going through men like drunkards through brandy.”

“What can I say?” the woman asks, shrugging. “Esma and Waverly have fucked at least half of Dunwall between the two of them.”

Billie finds a chuckle startled out of her. “I thought you were a lady.”

Lydia Boyle’s responding laugh is as musical as her fingers. “Whoever told you that?”

Billie grins, idly trailing a finger along the side of the instrument and drawing closer to her client.

“What about you, Lady Boyle? You haven’t called a hit on an old flame as long as I can remember.”

Lydia shrugs. “All I need is my music.”

“Is that so?” Billie takes the statement as a challenge, quirking her head to the side and leaning forward until she can feel static crackling between them.

“Unless you believe there’s something that I’m missing. I haven’t felt that I needed a man in at least a few years.”

“Not a man, then,” Billie states flatly.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says, a dark glove playing over the skin of Lydia’s pale, creamy hand, “that no one knows their way around a woman better than another woman.”

“Are you suggesting that I pay a visit to the Golden Cat?” Willful ignorance in her tone and a smile on her face. This lady is a wicked one.

“Maybe somewhere a little closer to home.” Billie yanks the glove from her hand, surprising Lydia with black skin. Her fingers, never shy, perch atop the Lady Boyle’s neck. “Have you ever wondered what I look like with my mask off?”

“I do now.”

Lady Boyle reaches up to undo the straps, but Billie stops her immediately with two strong hands around her wrists. “Not here, Lydia. Anyone could walk in on us.”

A horribly roguish expression crosses her face. “Isn’t that the fun of it?”

The blonde shakes away Lurk’s hold and yanks off the mask, receiving no protest from Billie. Lydia freezes at the sight of her face - sweet, pretty features and light blue eyeshadow.

“I was expecting someone more vicious in appearance,” she admits.

“I’m plenty vicious.” A sneer accompanies the statement, as if daring Lady Boyle to claim otherwise.

“I’m sure you are.”

Billie allows Lydia’s fingers to trace her lips. Eventually, they part, and she runs her tongue over Lydia’s fingertip. Dark eyes look down on the woman sitting before her, still a promise of blood and violence lurking behind that surface. She nips at her skin, once again taking hold of her wrist.

Soon enough, the assassin draws her hand back, replacing her glove and flexing it.

“I have work to do, Lady Boyle.”

The noble pouts her lips in disappointment. “Then you’re not going to show me your technique after all?”

“Oh, I’ll show you. In fact, I have a few ideas of how you can give me my payment.” She tilts her hips to the side, making no effort to hide the way she appraises the woman in front of her. 

The lady smiles and turns to the next page of her sheet music. “You can see me here for compensation when you complete your assignment.”

Lurk is chased out of the room by a complex, soulful tune, to which she would be all too happy to stay and listen.

\--

When she returns, there is a spray of blood on her gloves from her latest victim.

The lady Boyle stands immediately and pulls them off by the fingers, no care for staining her own hands. She removes the mask once again and sets it aside on the harpsichord case. Billie pushes away Lydia’s high collar and her teeth find that delicate neck. Hard muscles flex under the noblewoman’s searching fingers.

They are each too desperate to get the other’s clothes off. The two melt to the floor with a pile of discarded fabric, Billie pinning the other woman down beneath her. She straddles her with a smile and literally rips aside the impediment of her camisole, throwing the silken fabric aside. Torn into little more than a rag, the scrap of cloth flutters back to the ground. Lurk is sure she can afford another one.

Then their lips meet for the first time, not at all sweetly. Billie holds her down and nips at the soft mouth of the highborn, tasting the malice there. Both women are lovely on the outside, but there are horrors dwelling within, like creatures that sleep beneath the surface of the sparkling sea.

Billie has tasted enough of cruelty to know its flavors. Hers speaks of privilege and the abuse thereof, of the thirst for power on top of power. It makes her face red with fury.

Her hatred of the nobility may very well cause her ruin in this process, from inside or out. Simply thinking on her childhood makes the street rat’s touch harsher, her inescapable hold that much tighter. There may be a price on her head in the future, for daring to resent and ravish one more of the Boyle women.

She wraps a lock of long, sleek, _wealthy,_ hair around her wrist and tugs, not particularly caring if the resulting noise is of pain or pleasure or both. The process of tearing Lydia and her undoubtedly expensive wardrobe apart is a cathartic one. With her hand pressed between the other woman’s naked legs, she can almost hope to alter where the power rests.

Payment, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This satisfies the number of pairing suggestions I have for now, but I'm more than happy to receive new requests here or on tumblr.


End file.
